


Kisses

by MapleleafCameo



Series: Body Parts [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 23:15:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5720668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/pseuds/MapleleafCameo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John kisses Sherlock for the first time. What took him so long?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kisses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mattsloved1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattsloved1/gifts).



> Just a little something that wanted to be written.

John finally understands.

 

Sees what he should have seen since the beginning. His body knows, understands what it wants from Sherlock. It has always gravitated toward Sherlock. It follows him, and he cannot pull away, moth and flame. He leans forward and gently brushes the smooth cheek, ivory-hued and warm, softer than he thought, touching what he unconsciously wanted to for so long. Fingers automatically move, seeking the warmth and weight of the curls, rich and thick. He tugs, experimentally, and pulls. The shift of bodies and a creak of leather, Sherlock bends forward as John leans in, navy eyes slightly downcast, watching the full, lush mouth open as if to ask a question, as if to receive a token, a wafer or morsel of bread.

 

There is a brief hesitation. Not reluctance.

 

More like a ‘this can’t be happening’ moment. He wants to savour it, savour the look of astonishment in Sherlock’s eyes. He has surprised Sherlock before, but not like this.

 

Never like this.

 

And there is also silence.

 

There should always be silence; the in between noise that snow makes falling but before it hits the ground or the murmur of nothing that happens at nightfall.

 

Kisses pressing, lip to lip, gentle at first. A signal, perhaps a soft breath or a groan and it shifts, heat and flash, rushing through their blood. That thing, that thing they have, between them, that thing that has been waiting, cat-curled up, sleeping, slumbering ever so long, stirs and stretches, waking up with the least breath of emotion.

 

Sherlock finally, finally lets go, wraps around John and breathes him in. His fingers, usually so deft and sure, clumsy now, grasping and clutching, uncertain where to place them. He holds on, drowning, slipping, falling, taking the plunge, down the path, letting go and allowing the hard pressed, hidden feelings to sweep through.

 

Consuming him.

 

He loves John Watson.

 

John loves Sherlock Holmes.

 

It’s a bit awkward at first, figuring out which way and how and where to put noses, but it is as simple as anything. Sherlock just wants all of him and John just wants to kiss Sherlock forever, forever and always.

 

Lips part and Sherlock lets his body decide for a change, his tongue flicks out, lick and taste, tastes John’s mouth, information floods in. Why has he not done this before? Why has he wasted all this time and not spend it kissing John Watson?

 

John thinks this is unbelievable. I am kissing Sherlock. I didn’t know it was possible, that I wanted to. I am kissing Sherlock.

 

Foreheads touch, as they break apart, each breathing the expelled air of the other and one starts to giggle, probably John. It’s always John.

 

 “Come, Sherlock Holmes, come to my bed. Follow me.” And he tugs and pulls Sherlock up and out of his chair, fingers entwined and for a change Sherlock follows him, up the stairs, and trembles, just a little, as John undresses him, the only light from the window, from the streetlight outside.

 

For each button popped and for each article of clothing removed, John kisses him. For each kiss Sherlock receives, he returns one.

 

They sink onto the bed. John caresses bare skin and kisses bare skin and worships bare skin.

 

It’s quiet at first, like snow and nightfall and when it isn’t, it’s beautiful and joyous. All the clichés, rockets and stars.

 

And John says out loud what they were both thinking this whole time.

 

“Why'd we waste so much time?”

 

Sherlock, Mr. Punch Line, just shrugs and he kisses John again because he can.


End file.
